Begging and Pleading
by Linen Tartaruga
Summary: There was always something hungry and just a bit dangerous in his eyes when he made these appointments with me, but there was something else there that day.


**Title: Begging and Pleading**

**Summary:** There was always something hungry and just a bit dangerous in his eyes when he made these "appointments" with me, but there was something else there that day.

**Characters:** Ed and Roy; Ed's POV

**Warnings:** Current Ed/Winry (with mention of Roy/Riza) looking back on past Roy/Ed; bondage-gone-wrong.

**Disclaimer A: If I owned FMA then I wouldn't be poor and this wouldn't be fanfic.**

**Disclaimer B: The thoughts/opinions/sentiments/what-have-you expressed in this fic in no way shape or form express the thoughts/opinions/sentiments of the author. This is a series set in turn-of-the-century Western Europe; views of homosexuality were Not So Nice back then. Opinions in this fic towards it are, therefore, historically accurate and also a plot device, so please not to be complaining to me about how omgwrong I am for thinking homosexuality is evil. Because I don't. And I will laugh at you and point you to every other one of my fics. **Seriously, why would I be writing it if I thought that, people, come on.

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I should've seen it coming when I saw that look in his eyes when he asked me to "stop by" that night. There was always something hungry and just a bit dangerous when he made these . . . "appointments" with me, but there was something else there that day. Maybe a bit of over-eagerness? I don't really know, and I came to the conclusion long ago that I would probably never know what really went on behind those eyes of his.

Well, I guess that's not entirely true; I know something about what _didn't_ go on behind them. There was no love between us. No matter which way you tilted your head or how much you squinted your eyes, it just wasn't there. That's not to say that we didn't care -- I would've thrown myself in front of a bullet for him and I'm pretty sure that he'd do the same for me -- but caring about and loving someone are two very different things. Besides, what we'd been doing had very little, if anything, to do with either of them. What we had been doing was . . . something else. Something maybe a little perverted. Something that, had anyone actually known about it, would have gotten Roy arrested. And those were the reasons why I'd never told anyone; I was partly ashamed because it wasn't something that a "normal" person would want or understand, and I just didn't want him getting arrested.

Which was why we always took the most careful of precautions. When I went to meet him that night, it was well after the time most normal people had already eaten dinner and were sitting down to listen to the radio or read the newspaper, so there weren't a lot of people outside on the street. I'd abandoned, as always, my normal clothing since it was rather conspicuous and, instead, dressed in a pair of plain grey slacks and a white long-sleeved pullover shirt with a dark red vest over it. With that and my hair tucked up under a Gatsby cap, I could've been just another paperboy on their way home from handing out the evening edition. I'd told Al, as usual, that I was going to go out and listen around by some of the pubs to see if I could hear any useful rumors about the Stone; he never seemed to question it. Neither did anyone else out on the streets at that time of night who were either on their way home from a late night at work, on their way to the bar, and the last of the paperboys trying to unload their final editions on the stragglers and drunks. They tended to be fairly new to the trade (they were always the ones that overbought), so they didn't question who I was or where I'd been or how I'd sold my papers when they didn't recognize me.

There was always a specific time I was supposed to meet Mustang and we both used the clock tower in the center of East City (lovingly referred to as the Fuhrer's missing eye, or Old Eye for short) since you could see it anywhere within the city limits and it would ensure that we were both on the same time. And we were strict about it; if I was even a minute late then I didn't even bother going and Mustang wouldn't have let me in anyway. So he would find out when the landlord of his apartment building would be settling in for the night and, an hour later, I would meet him at the back entrance of the building where he would let me in and I'd follow him up to his apartment where the first order of business was pouring a couple of glasses of whiskey or brandy.

I don't know why he did this, I never really dared to ask, except maybe the first time. I couldn't help but wonder why he was giving a boy of fourteen alcohol, but he just replied that it wouldn't be the worst of his crimes that night, and it simply became a ritual, same as his cigarette afterwards. I suppose, to a point, he used it to build up the courage to do what we did in those days; it wasn't "normal" for a man to be attracted to _other_ men, after all, let alone a man of almost thirty to be attracted to a teenage boy of fourteen. And I guess a lot of people would look at me and say that I wasn't really attracted to him, that I'd been used and manipulated by an older and more powerful man, and the alcohol had been an obvious attempt to weaken my cognitive abilities so he could have his way with me. Maybe that was it, at first. Maybe that first time had all just been some evil, perverted attempt to get off on some defenseless kid. But then why did I keep going back? Why did I, even through my bitter hatred of the man and his manipulative ways, somewhat look forward to those times that Al and I returned to East City where I would see him again and don my paperboy clothes that came to smell permanently of alcohol, cigarettes, and sweat? I'd like to think that, while I may not realize them at the time, I became pretty good at being able to pick out those instances when Mustang had been manipulating me for his own purposes. I'd also like to think that those nights weren't part of any deeper plot. That they were just moments in time where two men -- one with a frustrating taboo sexual attraction and no other recourse, and one just coming into his sexuality and an easy and willing target -- could relatively safely fulfill their physical desires.

Don't think that he wasn't hard on himself either. He didn't think that I could tell, but the guilt that I would glimpse in his eyes sometimes was more familiar to me than any alchemic array -- I saw them enough times in the mirror. And it was worse that night. It was so much worse.

It was the same ritual as always: I met him at the back door at 8:30 exactly and he led me upstairs where I tossed my hat and vest onto the couch and plopped down there, myself, while he poured our drinks. It was the whiskey this time so I knew immediately that there was something wrong. We went through more of the bottle then we usually did, however slowly, while we talked about what had been going on while I'd been "traipsing around the country chasing fairytales," as he liked to put it. I didn't worry about time since we had until a quarter to midnight at the latest, as always, but I was starting to wonder about just what I was in for that night.

Finally he seemed ready to get on with it, leaning over to suck at my neck, smelling of more whiskey than he'd drank in my presence, though I'd always gotten the impression that he dipped into the stuff long before I would arrive there. I dutifully tilted my head, allowing him more room, and he passed down my throat, pulling my shirt back to get at my chest, the automail port in particular. He always seemed fascinated by it but that night he was even more so. He wrapped his lips around the small protrusion of metal screwed to my collar bone and began suckling it. I indulged him since I couldn't really feel it anyway, but then he wrapped his teeth around it and began tugging like some cat trying to dislodge something it thought was a treat. I could feel the sickly, unpleasant sensation of the screw and everything it was attached to inside of me being pulled outwards and I finally pressed my hands to Mustang's shoulders and forcefully pushed him back telling him that if he didn't stop, either his teeth or what was left of my collar bone was going to break.

Apparently he took the hint and he moved on, pulling my shirt up and attacking my chest instead. It was fine at first, and relatively innocent -- licking, kissing, sucking -- but then it started again. The teeth got involved and he slowly grew harsher until it became painful and I had to knee his head away. I thought that I'd gotten my disapproval across well with the glare I sent him to accompany the pseudo-kick, so I tried not to read into the grin he sent me back which was colored which a determination mingled with quite a bit of uncertainty. Nor did I struggle or protest when he pulled me up from the couch and finally led me to the bedroom where he closed the door and left only one light on -- the single one above his bed that gave out only the barest amount of light enough to see by. This wasn't unusual, really, since the lighting tended to change based on how Mustang was feeling that particular night and I tried to discern just that was while looking at the dim lamp, but couldn't come up with anything concrete.

I felt a nudge at my back and let the man lead me to the bed, losing my shirt somewhere along the way before I found myself lying down, leaning almost directly up against the barred headboard. Roy licked a straight line from my stomach to my throat and, by the time he was suckling on my earlobe, he was straddling me and grinding our hips together. I started panting but kept a check on my vocalization of just how good it felt, though I'm sure Mustang knew it anyway -- it was digging into his thigh, after all, as his was digging into my hip.

Once he'd decided that we'd both had enough, I guess, he moved up, straddling my chest instead so that his crotch was directly in front of my face with the bulge twitching towards me, just begging to be released. Mustang did the honors himself, pulling his belt from his pants and then unfastening them altogether. I didn't particular enjoy this part of our arrangement, but Mustang had done things to me that I liked but was sure that he didn't as well, including this, so I didn't make a fuss. Equivalent Exchange and all that. Besides, with his hard cock staring at me in the face I hardly had much of a choice. So, I dutifully opened my mouth and he eased himself in, gently rocking his hips while I sucked and licked.

He panted and grunted above me and I carefully reached into my pocket and pulled out the oil I generally used to maintain my automail, but that also served other purposes as well. I slid Mustang's pants a bit lower on his thighs and coated my metal fingers before sliding one slowly into that hidden pucker of muscle while my flesh hand gently cupped and rolled his sac. We'd used just about every possible position we could think of up to that point, so I was just as familiar with Mustang's dick as I was with his ass and I knew where to probe for the best reactions and he was reminded of that quickly. I felt him jerk and heard a choked moan as I hit the spot and I was surprised when he reached down, forcefully grabbing my hands away and lifting them above my head. He mumbled something that sounded like "too fast," but didn't pull out of my mouth, so I took the hint and just continued along like that while he fiddled around with my arms.

I wasn't sure what it was that he was doing since I only had the sensory information from one arm, but I instinctively knew that I wasn't going to like it, which was proven when he did finally pull away. He kissed me first, his tongue searching out his own taste in my mouth (another bit that I wasn't very fond of), and finally let me see what he'd done. The first hint was the fact that I couldn't move my arms and, when I looked up, I realized that Mustang had never dropped his belt.

He was flushed and panting when I looked back down at him, eagerness and trepidation warring in his eyes and mild fear and confusion in my own. He saw it easily, of course and his mouth was instantly at my neck, gently nibbling as his voice rumbled against my skin, murmuring what were meant to be seductive words about "control" and "trust" and "letting go." All I needed to know was that a possibly somewhat drunken man had tied me to his bed and intended to do things to me that he felt he needed me tied up _for_. I told him as such in no uncertain terms, but he insisted that I at least give it a chance and, if it turned out that I still had reservations then it wouldn't come up again. That, at least, I trusted him to keep his word on.

I accepted the offer, but prematurely as I soon found out. The next thing I knew, Mustang had reached over to his nightstand for something and when he came back, all of the lights went out.

The blindfold was tied securely around my head and it was thick enough that I couldn't even see what little light there was in the room, though I guess that was the point. My pulse must have doubled in that short amount of time and I'm sure that Mustang knew it, sucking at my throat again as he was. I couldn't see a thing and my arms were tied tightly enough that I couldn't wriggle them free; in my past experience neither of these two things, either separately or in conjunction with each other or anything else, were good. How could they be? They were specifically meant to limit the person they were being done to and why would you want something like that unless you planned to harm them?

But I didn't say anything. Not yet. I resolved to give it a chance, mostly out of my own pride, not wanting to seem weak in front of Mustang.

Besides, I was still hard and ready to get the damn show on the road already. His mouth didn't move from the spot, though, and I could feel him sucking increasingly harder, his tongue rubbing wet and warm over my skin until his teeth came into it. Again it started out light and then the pressure increased until he was biting down. I swallowed all vocal reactions to what I was sure would leave a very noticeable mark on my neck, wondering what in the hell had gotten into the man and almost calling a stop to it right there.

Then he moved on. I could feel his hands brushing over my sides, a gentle contrast to the sharp nips he made to my chest. His fingers brushed around the edge of the automail port and down, rubbing against my nipple. It made me squirm and once again I had to hold back the urge to tell him to stop. I couldn't touch him, I couldn't see him. How did I know what he was doing? How did I know that it was even him doing it anymore? My mind filled with all kinds of paranoid thoughts but they got to me in a way that all of Mustang's groping just wasn't and when his teeth finally closed around my other nipple far too harshly, I finally gave in and told him to stop.

But he didn't. Didn't even pause. I thought, at first, that he just hadn't heard me somehow in the completely silent room so, when he began nipping his way slowly down my sternum, I repeated myself more loudly.

He continued on down my stomach, my pleas growing in volume with each severe bite until he reached my navel. No, I told him as he delved his tongue in, thrusting in and out while his hands worked to unfasten my pants. I don't remember ever begging in my life unless my brother's life had been on the line, but I found myself pleading with a man that my mind was telling me might not even be there anymore. I tried, anyway, asking him desperately to please don't do that, I told you to stop before, I don't like it, dammit, you have to stop I can't _do_ this, Mustang, no not there please don't, just let me go or at least take this damn blindfold off, you bastard, _no_, I said _NO_!

My knee made impact just as his hand had wrapped around my by then-flaccid penis and a quick transmutation had me free in seconds. I tore off the blindfold to see Roy lying on his back, both of his hands covering his side where I had presumably hit him and his own erection quickly shrinking. He didn't look at me as I got redressed and I knew why, could see it written all over his face. He hadn't meant for t to end up like that, but I couldn't just give him the forgiveness he needed. I couldn't tell him that it was alright because it wasn't. Yes, I'd agreed to it, but I'd told him to stop plenty of times before I'd had to physically make him.

We didn't say a word to each other when I left and, as usual, Al didn't ask any questions when I came back to our room at the inn and immediately headed for the shower, trying not to look at all of the marks that Mustang had left on me. I don't think I slept well that night, though it's hard to remember after all of these years; I do remember that it was a good long while before I took those newsboy clothes out of my suitcase again.

The meetings did stop altogether eventually as well. With the concern of my brother behind us, I grew older and began experimenting with more socially acceptable relationships and Mustang slowly grew more and more distant, calling on me less and less until finally he just stopped calling at all. I don't keep in touch with him much anymore, and I think both our wives are appreciative of that. They're both very sharp women and I have no doubt that they have a good idea of what had gone on between the two of us during my years working with the military and, well, they're both a little bit possessive.

I did write to him recently, though, in response to a letter he'd sent to me almost two months ago. I thanked him for the update on my brother, though Al and I exchange letters weekly without fail, and told him I was glad to hear of he and Riza's daughter finishing elementary school and her plans to go to high school as well. I updated him on mine and Winry's own set of twins and their first attempts at transmuting folded paper cranes -- I saw a lot of potential in our daughter but our son was just more interested in his mother's automail endeavors. There hadn't been much else to say, but I'd still felt as if there was something missing. I thought long and hard and finally added at the bottom:

_P.S._

_All these years, I know you've been beating yourself up over it. Listen to me this time when I tell you to stop: I forgive you._

_-End_


End file.
